Rose Thorns and Full Moons
by theDarkIsRising
Summary: [Beauty and the Beast AU] Hermione lives in a village with her merchant father. Scorned by the locals, she loses herself in the books her father brings her. But one day, he returns with a red rose and he is dying. He plucked it from the garden of a beast. Now Hermione must return to this beast's castle to save her father, but damn herself.
1. Chapter 1

Rose Thorns and Full Moons

theDarkIsRising

* * *

"She's odd, don't you think?"

The baker nodded and whispered something in return. Hermione couldn't hear what he said, but she'd heard enough. Both glanced sideways at her; the baker's hands were covered in flour as he cupped them around his mouth. She placed the loaf of bread in her basket and turned away. They were always whispering after her. She paid the girl at the counter and sighed. The marketplace was bustling when she stepped out the door. She carefully sidestepped out of a carriage's way as it came rushing down the street. The wheels clacked over the cobblestone.

Some people crossed the street when they saw Hermione approaching them. One woman, older, with a kerchief tied around her white hair, crossed herself when passing the younger girl. Hermione ground her teeth. A faint cracking sound emanated from a carriage parked next to her. Fissures spread out along its glass windows like a spider web. Looking around quickly, Hermione ignored the breaking glass and hurried away. The cabby kept talking to a potential client and took no notice of the windows. Hermione lifted her skirt so she could move faster. She'd been caught by such an accident before and didn't want to repeat it.

The first time happened when she was only eleven. One of her schoolmates, Blaise, followed her home. He threw stones at her, laughing, calling her a "know-it-all."' That hadn't riled her. Hermione was always at the top of her class. At first, the name calling did bother her. She came home crying to her father. He'd smooth down her untamable hair and hug her. Then he'd pull a book from his satchel – one from the local bookshop, or even better, one from his trips abroad. That always put a smile back on Hermione's face. She'd immediately curl up with it and read until she was done and ready to devour another. No, she didn't become angry until Blaise spoke ill of her father. "Everybody says he's a murder," Blaise said. "Everybody says so. Where's your mum?"

Hermione turned on her heel and with one glance sent Blaise flying through the air, bouncing along the road, until he dragged to a stop in the dirt. He wasn't seriously hurt. But he never followed her home again. Now when people saw her, "know-it-all" became "freak." A year later she'd touched the dying rose bush outside the local inn. It was winter. The vines and leaves were brown and had been pruned back. Hermione rubbed a leaf between her fingers, sad that it was no longer green and there were no longer any flowers. Immediately, color returned to the vines and they began creeping up the trellis. Heady, full roses blossomed in white, pink and gold. A small crowd gathered around, pointing and gasping. Her father grabbed her shoulders. He steered her away, toward home. But people saw and they knew. Some even called her "witch." Her father explained how her mother was gifted_, _in a sense, but he did not know how or why. He made her promise never to tell anyone about her own or her mother's abilities. Her mother's death cut Hermione even deeper when she realized that she'd never truly understand what strange force flowed through her body. She could never ask her mother to explain. Other, smaller events happened throughout the next seven years. Jars repaired themselves. Candles burned, but did not drip wax. Books opened to where she left off. Rain poured when she cried. Strong winds knocked over boys who laughed at her.

Thus, Hermione was nearly twenty, living with her father, a struggling merchant, reading books and taking care of his household. No man dared ask to marry her. Some made a joke of it, but never too loudly. A few brave souls spoke to her. Hermione guessed they had been dared to do so. One in particular, Draco, came around more often than the others. He was from an old family, one of the oldest in the village. They were all wealthy and owned most of the buildings in town. Her father asked if Draco sought her hand.

"I don't think so and I don't care. He thinks he's being brave," she said. Hermione marked her place in the book and gazed up at her father. His hair was more salt than pepper now and a worried look weighed down his face. Soon, he'd have to leave again and he always hated to do so. Her mother died in childbirth, leaving him a broken man with a daughter to raise. He wanted her to find someone to love as he had loved her mother.

"Maybe, maybe not. Perhaps, he is sincere," he said.

"As long as I have books, I'll have no need for a husband." She smiled at her jest, but he did not return her grin.

"Someday, when I'm gone, you'll think otherwise," he said. Pressing his lips to her forehead, he bid her an early goodnight. His next bartering trip was set to leave at first light. Hermione tried to return to her book, but couldn't. She lay down, thinking about how quiet the house would become and how she would have to face the village alone. As her eyelids grew heavy and sleep overcame her, the candle snuffed out on its own accord.

Under a heavy, gray sky, she waved goodbye to her father. He promised, as usual, to bring her something back, most likely another book. His wagon wheels squeaked across the rough terrain. He waved once more as he entered the forest and then turned his attention back to his horse and the road before him. A flurry of snowflakes dusted the ground as the day wore on.

Within two weeks, snow piled around the front steps and in the crevices of the roof. Hermione looked out the windows again. Her father should have returned by now. His trip was simply to a nearby town, one deeper in the woods, but not terribly far. She fiddled with the cover of her book. She passed a hand over her cup of tea and it soon steamed again. Something was not right. Hermione felt it deep within her bones; this dread felt colder than the wind outside. Maybe he was lost. Maybe he was stuck in the snow. Maybe… Her mind trailed off and refused to finish that statement. She vowed to give him another day to return and then she would go searching for him.

Thankfully, a horse neighing and the stamping of hooves awoke her the next morning. Throwing on a robe, she dashed to the door and flung it open. Her heart squeezed at the sight before her. Her father's cart was gone. He was slung over his horse, slumped forward to the point of nearly falling off. Ice coated his clothing and his hair. But in his hand, he held a brilliant, bright red rose. Rushing forward, Hermione helped him down and they hobbled inside together. Only when he was seated by the fire did he relinquish the flower. Hastily, Hermione sat it atop her most recent book. "For you," her father said, weakly.

She shushed him. "Yes, it's beautiful. But rest now. You'll feel better in the morning."

But he did not get better. The flower stayed fresh, never wilting, never fading as her own father wasted away in his bed. It was queer how the rose needed no water or sunlight and still maintained his color. Hermione held her father's hand and wished him well. She hoped a spark would pass between them and she could make him better. She felt only resistance to her wishes.

"What happened?" she asked.

Usually, he shook his head weakly and would not answer her. He would raise his hand to touch her cheek and then drift back to sleep. "For you," he would sometimes say. Now though, struggling for breath, he told her the story, in bits and pieces. "Lost, so lost. A castle, large, hidden. Beautiful garden. Plucked you a flower. But cursed. Cursed by a beast. Let me ride away. I knew though-I knew-"His words were cut off by his coughing. "My life for the flower. Cursed. Could not stay there and live. Must return. For you."

His eyes grew heavy; he was slipping away. "Father, father," she said, shaking him. "Where is this place? Where is it?"

"Forest," was all he managed to say.

"The flower," she said. Hermione turned and picked it up. It felt heavy in her hands. "If I take it back, will the curse be lifted? Will you get better?"

"No," he pleaded. "Trapped." He tried to sit up. "You will be trapped."

"But you will live." She guided him back to his pillow. He did not have the strength to stop her. Hermione ran to the nearest neighbor and asked them to check on her father. She told them she was leaving and did not know when she would return. Before going, she bent over, kissing her father on the forehead. His eyes remained closed. Her heart racing, Hermione grasped the rose until the thorns bit into her skin. Without looking back, she left and mounted their horse.

"Come on," she said. She guided him toward the trail and toward the forest. Snow fell thickly around them. "Show me where this castle is. Show me where you found the rose."

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_**AN:**_So, I've never written an AU completely outside of the HP universe, but this has been something I felt compelled to write. I needed to get this out. Is this kind of AU of interest to people? I would keep them quite similar (I hope) to their book counterparts. I think Remione fits so well into this "Beauty and the Beast" paradigm. Should we soldier on? Get to the castle? (Or is this too weird?)


	2. Chapter 2

Rose Thorns and Full Moons

theDarkIsRising

* * *

Hermione's cloak was soaked. No one mentioned how wet and cold heroes and heroines became in the stories she read. If they did, it was written in a beautiful, tragic manner so that their suffering transcended into something romantic. But for Hermione, she was simply cold and wet; she could not will any warmth into her limbs. She had tucked the rose into her dress collar; it rested snugly against her breast so that her hands were free to control the reins.

Their gray mare, Francis, struggled in the snow. It was deep and he kept falling. She thought of her father and knew he was safe. That thought alone kept her going. She would keep him safe as he had always protected her. Their neighbor, old Sibyl, a woman also disliked by the village, nearly shunned, because of her strange bug eyes and constant mutterings, would care for him. Sibyl was not scared to live next to Hermione and never bothered her. She would watch over her father, who had lost his way in this forest and had not come out the same. Hermione glanced down at the bright red rose poking out from beneath her cloak. It looked like a breath of summer amidst the stark white surroundings. Its beauty betrayed how deadly it was. Hermione shivered and not from the cold. Her father muttered the words "curse" and "trapped." I will never return. I will never see him again, but he will live. But her father had also whispered "beast." It was that word – "beast" – that haunted Hermione as she moved through the forest. The stark black trees were closing in on her. _Beast, beast_. She felt she could already feel its eyes watching her.

The road was nearly unrecognizable. She'd never gone this far before, but she knew the way to the village, directly to the west toward the setting sun. However, there was no sun to guide her. The horse snickered and cantered as the road took an imperceptible curve to the left. They stepped off the main road and sank into deep snow banks. Her hands were nearly as red as the rose as she'd left in a hurry, forgetting her gloves. Her cloak whipped around as the wind increased. It snapped. The blue lining flashed in the weak sunlight. Tree branches scraped overhead. That was all she could hear over the sweep of snow through the woods and the horse's heavy breathing.

They continued to wander. She was colder, the coldest she had ever felt. The horse strayed further and further into the forest until Hermione no longer knew which was way was which. A wolf howled in the distance, soon another joined. She brushed the snow from her hair, urging the horse on at a quicker pace, sloughing through the underbrush. Where is it? she thought. Where are you? Where do I need to go? Her mind pleaded with the barren trees, the watery blue sky that would soon turn to gray. Then, the reins in her hands moved slowly to the right of their own accord and she allowed this movement to guide them. She'd been directed before – to move out of a carriage's way, to stand in a certain line, to shift so a chamber pot narrowly missed her head.

She felt pinpricks all along her body and a slow, warm flush began creeping up her extremities. When she'd nearly lost all feeling in her arms and legs, so that the reins barely rested in her curled fingers, a gray wall emerged in the distance. It seemed to shimmer into view as if it had not been there a moment before. It loomed larger than even the gates of those kings and princes in the tales she read. Behind it, even larger, even more ominous, was a stone castle, three sharp spires puncturing the sky. No flag hung from its battlements and no lights glowed in its windows. It was formidable and Hermione pulled up the horse at one point. Her body told her to turn back; she felt sick. She covered her mouth as if physically ill and bit back her fear as she pressed the horse forward.

Following along the wall, she eventually came to a wrought iron gate. Despite the fact it was wide enough for two carriages and reached high above her head, its intricate scrollwork was coated in grime and rust. Not seeing a lock, Hermione reached out a hand and opened it with a small shove. The hinges creaked loudly, sounding unnatural in the quiet. She urged Francis forward. He whinnied and took a step backward. Digging in her heels, he finally moved inside the courtyard. The stone walkway curved around what was once surely a magnificent hedge garden. Now though, the rows of hedges were overgrown with weeds and vines; the designs in the shrubbery were long lost. Hermione did not see any rose bushes.

She tied the horse underneath a well-sheltered pine tree in an alcove next to the massive front door. Lacking any sort of grace, she unseated and nearly tumbled to the ground. Her body ached. She removed the rose from her dress and clutched it in her hands. Craning her neck, she looked into the castle's windows once more and saw nothing moving. The light was fast leaving the sky as she ascended the castle's stone steps. The door, like the gate, was worse for the wear; its wood was mottled and pockmarked. Two brass knockers in the shape of wolves bared their teeth at her. She remembered the sound of wolves from the forest and hesitated. As she prepared to knock, the door swung open slightly. Hermione was unsure if she had willed it open or if someone was on the other side. Carefully, she stepped inside, straining her eyes to see in the darker room.

"Hello," she said. Her voice echoed off the high ceiling. "Hello?"

The foyer was larger than her entire house. A wide staircase opened up in front of her. Two hallways branched off to her left and right, delving deeper into the castle. A single candelabrum burned next to the bannister. It aided what little sunlight still streamed in through the thick velvet curtains hanging in the windows. Sheltered from the biting wind, Hermione began to feel her skin become warm again. She peered down one hallway and then the other. It was too dark to see what lay beyond the first few rooms. So, she ascended the massive stone staircase. One hand held the rose in a death grip while the other slid along the rail, out of habit. She'd always hated falling and at the moment, her legs were incredibly weak. The shadows cast by the candelabra looked alive. They danced around the large entryway and crept up the walls. _Beast, beast_, echoed in her mind. A stab of fear ran through her and the candle flames flared to nearly a foot in height. When she broke eye contact with them, they sank back down.

Steeling herself, she called out again. "Hello? Please, I'm here about my father."

No answer came. Thick rugs in gold and red carpeted the second floor landing. The windows were narrower as well. Heading toward the right, she came across more lit candelabra and then another. They were clustered in a small seating area where a dark wood and red satin settee sat with several end tables. Beyond that though was darkness. Her eyes could not see past the bright flames and she hesitated. Hermione had encountered no one, but obviously someone was home. Dread seeped into her bones, where the cold used to reside. Maybe she should turn back, maybe she should look along the first floor. Then a hand touched her dress and grabbed her knee.

Hermione stifled a scream and stumbled back. She felt herself reach out, to push whatever it was away, but her abilities were met with resistance. Her legs hit the ornate cherry table. What stood before was not as terrifying as she had suspected. It was like a very short man or a very old child. Its eyes were large and bulbous, its ears pointed, its skin a dappled green-grey. It smiled at her, sweeping what appeared to be a tea cozy off its head as it bowed. She would have guessed his dress had been an old pillowcase with holes cut in it for the head and arms. Despite this, when it moved toward her, she still attempted to take a step back.

"So sorry, Missus, didn't mean to frighten you. But yes, yes I did. You need to leave Missus. You need to leave straight away before master finds you," it said.

"Your master?" she said.

"Yes, Missus. He'll be very angry to find someone in his castle. We don't want him to be angry."

"Who is your master?" she asked. She did not want him to say it, but knew she must find out. _Beast, beast_.

The small creature looked about nervously, twisting the tea cozy in its hands. Then abruptly, he grabbed the nearest object - a fine blue and white vase – and began beating himself over the head with it. "Mustn't say," he mumbled. "Mustn't say these things about the master."

Hermione rushed forward and easily grabbed the vase from its hands. "Don't do that," she said. "You'll hurt yourself." She sat it back on the end table. "What is the matter?" She knelt down so she could be on eye level with him.

It avoided her eyes. "Missus must leave. She must leave now."

"I can't. I've come all this way. It's my father," she said. She showed the strange creature the even stranger rose. "See. I've brought it back."

The creature covered its face with its tea cozy hat and made a strangled weeping sound. "Oh no. Oh no no no. It wasn't to be Missus. Where's the old man? He took it. He must pay the price."

"He's fallen ill. This rose would kill him," she said. Gently, Hermione tugged the cozy from its face. "I'm here for him. Tell me what I must do."

"No," it kept crying. "Leave. Run. Please Missus."

Hermione heard a stirring beyond the glow of the candlelight. She could not see behind the four-tiered candelabras into the long hallway, but she could faintly hear footsteps. She froze in her kneeling position. The creature began to cower; shifting under it was nearly hidden behind Hermione. A breath disturbed the flames briefly, causing them to gutter for a moment.

"She's come to pay the price, Dobby," the voice said. It was masculine and biting, raspy as if from disuse. "You've come in place of the merchant?"

Hermione could only nod. Slowly, she rose to her feet. Her heart maybe thumping, but if she was to die, she would not do so kneeling before her killer. Stretching out into the empty space, she offered the disembodied voice the rose. It flamed deep crimson in the candlelight. "Here," she said. "This is yours." Her arm reminded outstretched for several minutes before a pale hand emerged from beyond the darkness. Hermione could not hold back a gasp at the condition of this hand and the arm that followed. There was not a single piece of smooth skin on the flesh. Deep cuts and raised scars stood out along the fingers, the wrist and further Hermione guessed, but she could not see. A white shirt cuff ended at the crook of the elbow; the rest remained in darkness.

At her slight inhalation of breath, the faceless figure growled slightly and violently snatched the flower from her hand. As with the previous creature, Hermione stepped back, trying to put distance between her and whatever lay beyond. Her fear caused the candles to flare again, brightening the room as if it was a summer day. The figure was also moving away; his footsteps receded from the flames. They soon receded to their normal flame again.

"Is the debt paid?" she asked. "My father - will he…"

"The rose will no longer sicken your father," the voice answered. "But the rose is not your debt."

"Then what is?"

The creature – Dobby, he was called – pulled on her hand. "Don't ask Missus. You should have left when Dobby asked you. Please."

"It is you," the voice said.

A long pause passed between them. Dobby tugged on her hand. Hermione tried to steady her breathing. _You will be trapped_, came her father's voice. I will be killed, her mind countered. A life for a life. But for her father, he would be safe and well and alive. Biting her lip, Hermione approached the hall's entryway once more, but this time the candles did not flicker. She stood straighter; her hands balled into fists. "If I must die, then you must prove to me that my father will live."

Appallingly, the voice chuckled, a low and dangerous sound. "Brave little bird, you are not to die."

"What?"

"You are to stay here as payment. You will live out your days within these castle walls. That is punishment for taking a rose from this garden. You are an acceptable trade for that man – for your father."

"Prove to me he is alive. Give me your word." She made to move past the candles and into the hallway.

"No," the voice said. Then she could hear him retreating; Dobby was tugging on her arm again. "Take her to her room. I promise _on my word _that I will show you tomorrow."

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_**AN:**_Rock 'n' roll, y'all. Thank you so much for the reviews and the follows. I hope this is an interesting take on the story; I'm trying to mesh the folk tale, Disney and Harry Potter into one..._thing_... As always, please leave a review if you like it (or don't like it) or if there's something you are hoping to see happen. The good stuff is coming up.


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